


together in the same place

by bloodsweatspit



Category: Blaseball (Video Game)
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-19
Updated: 2020-09-19
Packaged: 2021-03-07 23:40:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26535979
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bloodsweatspit/pseuds/bloodsweatspit
Summary: ziwa & fish at the gym together. fish is annoying. ziwa is not great at communicating or interpersonal relationships.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 16
Collections: Canada Moist Talkers Fanfiction





	together in the same place

fish summer is not great at the whole “shared spaces” thing.

this wouldn’t be a big a deal, really, except that ziwa is actually kind of serious about lifting again this season. it’s been too long since they were in the gym. their hands are smooth again, slipping against the crosshatched grips in the metal. they’ve lost the rhythm their breath should make - they keep inhaling before the lift, holding it in without realizing until their head spins. the absolute last thing ziwa needs is someone like fish grunting away a couple machines down.

fish has a boombox they set up every day. outside the gym they apparently listen to early-2000s ska, which ziwa could actually get down with, but for some godforsaken reason fish thinks the only appropriate weightlifting music is pop best suited to a bar mitzvah in 2012. ziwa has heard “i gotta feeling” by the black eyed peas _multiple times this week._ when fish first started working out in the talkers gym, ziwa tried suggesting a change of pace - “maybe some heavy metal? something that’ll get you pumped up?” - but fish just stared at them. they did this squinting thing they do sometimes, that makes it look like they’re blinking in confusion even though they can’t actually blink.

“i like this music. it helps me believe in myself. it helps me believe that i can lift the biggest weights.”

ziwa did not press the matter. anyone capable of finding genuine inspiration in “shake it off” was... well, changing fish’s mind seemed like more effort than it was worth.

but okay, so the music is pretty rough and fish plays it loud. ziwa can still wear headphones. the music is just one thing. the sweat, though - _how does a shark even sweat!_ andof course fish has never once wiped down a machine. and then there’s the “protein shakes” they bring in, which smell like microwaved durian even before fish adds the seaweed supplement, and they’ll forget empty drink bottles in their locker for _days_ how do they not _smell it -_

ziwa is not doing so well having fish around the gym, is the point here.

they want to like fish. they really do. especially because pretty much everyone else does. they all miss richmond, of course, but fish settled into the team surprisingly quickly. (it probably helped that fish got their nickname for a reason; ziwa has noticed that a good set of abs and a crop top can do a lot for a blaseball player’s social standing.)

but the gym thing is making it really, really hard. ziwa thinks they’re actually getting _worse_ as a player since getting back in the gym. they’ve tried to change up their schedule, work out different days or times, but somehow fish is just... always there. not literally enough that ziwa thinks they live there, but pretty close.

at night, when ziwa’s lying in bed trying not to get restless waiting for sleep, they think of the next day and imagine themself executing the motions flawlessly. every swing a hit, every lift precise. they can feel it, there in bed, the body’s muscles warm and capable.

but then it’s the next day and they’re going down into a squat and watching their own heels pop up in the mirror like they’re a goddamn beginner. and even on days like today, where ziwa has actually managed to sneak into the gym late enough at night that they’re alone, they find their heart thumping angrily just _thinking_ about fish summer and how often they’ve struck out swinging this season and how no one else seems to be having a single fucking problem lately except for them.

that’s where ziwa is - at the bottom of their squat, their vision of themself in the mirror going blurry with loathing - when the door in the mirror opens and in walks fish _fucking_ summer.

today, the boombox is playing “toxic”. ziwa doesn’t even have headphones in.

the shrieking strings at full volume are like needles being driven into their ears. something internal snaps. they jerk upwards too fast, let the bar slam straight onto the rack. the ringing and the music combine to fill the room with dissonance; ziwa snatches their water bottle from the ground and stomps towards the door. fish hits the pause button on the boombox without taking their eyes off ziwa.

“you’re mad.”

“and _you’re_ always fucking here!”

ziwa hears how nasty the words sound spit out like that. for a flickering moment, they feel kind of bad. then fish says, with that strange not-blinking look, “i like it here. you don’t like me being here?” and ziwa remembers that fish is a brick fucking wall.

“i don’t _like_ hearing your stupid fucking music so loud, no. i don’t like having to smell your gross weird shakes. i don’t give a shit about you being _here_ , just stop fucking being here around _me_ all the goddamn time.”

ziwa is ready to continue stomping away at this point, but fish is in the doorway, eyes still fixed on them. “i didn’t know that. i just like lifting weights when you’re also lifting weights.” their tone is exactly as even as always, stripped of any overt friendliness or discomfort. “you always try very hard. it helps me feel like i should try hard too, even on tough days.”

now ziwa _does_ feel bad. they can feel the heat rising in their cheeks; they stare at the ground as they push past fish silently. they don’t look back as they rush out into the cold night.

—

ziwa decides to give up on lifting for awhile. they figure they’ll just dodge fish at games for a bit, sit on the other side of the dugout. wait for the whole thing to fall out of their head into the miasma of other half-forgotten awkward interpersonal experiences.

of course, they keep forgetting to account for fish being... fish. ziwa doesn’t even make it to the field the next day - they’re stretching alone in a back hallway near the team entrance to the arena, trying to clear their mind - when they hear lumbering footsteps. even with the warning of someone’s approach, ziwa still jumps a little when they see who it is.

“i won’t play my music so loudly.”

ziwa fumbles for words. “that’s - i mean, thank you - listen, i - “

fish continues on without missing a beat: “we should spot for each other.”

“i - sorry?”

their eyes are large and dark as water. ziwa can’t tell if that darkness hold depth, or just a blank reflection of something deep. fish breathes in and out; their abdomen expands and contracts. “i don’t want you to be mad at me.”

they’re gone as fast as they arrived. ziwa watches the tall, solid mass of their shadow retreat down the hall. ziwa’s so distracted by the whole thing that, in the second inning, they hit a triple without even thinking about it.

—

the next few days go quickly - they’re away at the fridays, and just getting out there and back leaves everyone completely zonked, cursing the existence of time zones and global travel. ziwa floats through the airports. their wheeled suitcase seems to follow them like a puppy, as if they aren’t guiding its movements at all. they sleep upright in terminal chairs waiting to board. they stand in lines for fast-food terminals. they watch families nearby and try to imagine being someone who could have a child. someone who could plan confidently for multiple years. someone confident enough to risk another life if it happened they were wrong.

when ziwa gets home from plane rides, they like to unpack everything in one swift burst of energy before finally relaxing. put all the laundry in the hamper; water all the plants; refill the dishes of kibble for the alley cats.

they’re just finishing up a quick sweep through the mail to discard the junk when they hear a knock at the door. they shouldn’t be surprised to see fish on the other side. if they were more awake, they’d have a good line ready; instead, they just adjust their hat and wait to hear what fish has to say.

“wanna go lift?”

ziwa doesn’t actually want to. fish doesn’t seem ready to take “no” for an easy answer.

and hey - they aren’t carrying the boombox.

—

they walk to the gym in silence. ziwa honestly isn’t sure if it’s uncomfortable for either of them. the air is so cold it nearly crackles in their nose; overhead, the stars are bits of shattered crystal on a velvet sky. after being in hawaii, both of them are bundled in scarves and gloves. ziwa looks at fish sideways as they walk and thinks about how different they look bundled up like this. cozy. like someone who might know how to smile without showing too many teeth.

in the locker room, the silence lingers as they strip off their heavy coats and trade sweatpants for blasketball shorts. ziwa gets changed a little faster, and doesn’t know what to do except go out and start warming up; they begin with some simple stretches, and when they look up from one, they see fish doing lunges across the room. ziwa shrugs mentally and proceeds with their own warm-ups.

they both go on like that for a bit - silent, moving through the empty cavernous space of the gym, not quite dodging each other through the forest of machines. ziwa does sets of leg presses, staring at the ceiling. they can hear fish’s grunts echoing off the walls. it doesn’t really bother them, tonight. somehow the cold night seems to have carried its stillness into the building. ziwa feels certain that no one else will enter; no other sounds will intrude. they move on and pick up a pair of kettlebells for rows. they’re a set and a half in, feeling their traps finally start to warm and stretch out again, when fish’s voice rings flatly across the room, making ziwa jump and nearly drop the kettlebells:

“spot me on bench?”

ziwa can’t exactly say no. it’s not like there’s anyone else around to spot for fish.

they set their weights down, trying not to stare at fish’s back in the mirror. fish is adding plates to the bar with the singular focus of... well, a shark. the fluorescent lights cast bizarre shadows everywhere. ziwa crosses the room as if they’re in a dream, moonwalking through molasses.

fish is already lying on the bench by the time ziwa reaches it. their eyes stare up at ziwa’s, unblinking and clear.

ziwa looks at the bar instead of fish’s eyes. “how many reps?”

“five.”

ziwa nods, positions their hands around the bar. one over / one under. cupped and ready. fish lifts the bar up.

their breath is even and smooth. their muscles go taut and then slack beneath their pebbly skin: triceps, anterior deltoids, pectorals. ziwa does not look at that. they watch the bar, watch fish’s thick wrists for any sign of wavering.

after the set, fish says, “trade?”

ziwa has the dizzy sense of being trapped on a rollercoaster at the peak of the first hill. they remove plates from each side of the bar without actually responding. (they don’t feel ashamed of this - if nothing else, ziwa knows they lift damn well for their size.) they settle down onto the bench. it’s warm from fish’s body.

they wipe their damp hands against their shorts. fish towers above them. the bar cuts through ziwa’s field of vision; they wrap their hands around the grips and settle their shoulder blades into position. their breath sounds so loud in the expansive space. overhead, the ceiling is covered by a maze of exposed piping. they push harder on the unrack than they need to - catch for a moment - then lower the bar to their chest smoothly.

ziwa lifts. fish watches. their eyes are night without stars.

time continues to move. fish does another set without missing a beat. the AC, which had gone off at some point, starts its alien mechanical hum again.

on their second set, ziwa doesn’t falter unracking the bar. the whir of the AC almost sounds like distant, staticky music. ziwa lets their eyes slip half-closed. they lower the bar neatly: not a bounce, not letting it rest too long. time stretches like pulled taffy. their breath aligns with the movements of their body. fish is right there, face as large as the world, solemn mouth splitting it in two.

they trade places again; ziwa can feel the breeze as they pass each other. they can’t remember the last time they were so aware of another person’s body. fish lifts like a machine. if it weren’t for their breath and the way they nod ever so slightly at ziwa between sets, ziwa could imagine fish was automated. fish knocks out a perfect third set: straining, beads of sweat rising even on their chilly form, but always on the right side of the edge of what their body can do. they take out their phone at the end; ziwa watches over fish’s shoulder as they add to a note with a list of PRs.

on the second rep of their third set, ziwa fails.

they get the bar up there fine but their energy just doesn’t match their ability. their arms are the weak point but they _feel_ it in their chest and face, in their gasping breath, the heat that swells their cheeks and sears across their scalp. the bar collapses towards their neck as they try to push up, try to _fix_ it, try not to -

fish lifts the bar and re-racks it in one clean movement.

ziwa stares at the dizzying intricacy of the pipes lacing the ceiling. their breath scrapes raw against their throat.

“you can ask me for help if you need it.”

ziwa blinks.

“i didn’t realize - “

fish is picking up a set of dumbbells already. “you did. you would’ve dropped it before asking. go get some water, take a break.”

ziwa sits upright, ignoring the lingering dizziness that sends their head swooping back and forth. “what? listen, i’m fine. come on, i didn’t finish my set, get over - “

fish snaps back around with a vicious speed ziwa hasn’t seen off the field before. “i _said_ take a break.”

“i said i’m fine!” ziwa snaps.

“you’re _not_.”

ziwa feels their entire body somehow flush and break out in goosebumps at the same time. fish is right: they’re not fine, they’re exhausted, they haven’t eaten since the layover in san francisco. fish noticed that. fish _cares_.

they’re doing bicep curls almost absentmindedly, like someone else might pick at their nails or jiggle one leg. “so will you just... go get some water?”

ziwa stands up from the bench. “i, uh - i’m gonna actually call it a night, i think.” something that might be the edges of a frown flicker across fish’s mouth. “not - i mean, you’re right. i’m not feeling so great. gonna go home, probably house a box of KD, and pass out.”

fish’s face splits into a broad, vaguely terrifying smile. “i’m glad to hear that.” ziwa smiles back, even as their heart thrums against their ribcage.

they’ve nearly passed fish on their way to the locker room when, in one quick movement, fish drops a dumbbell and yanks ziwa into a crushing sideways hug. ziwa’s so much shorter that their face smashes against fish’s bare stomach. it’s... nice. ziwa doesn’t hug back for long, just one quick squeeze, but for a moment they are next to each other in the mirror and ziwa doesn’t hate the way they look.

outside, it’s begun to snow gently. ziwa tips their head back to look at the sky. somewhere in the distance, the leviathan is visible as it circles the arena, just a streak of darkness against the clouds. a snowflake lands on the very tip of their nose. it isn’t a superstition they’ve ever heard anywhere, but on a whim - just in case - ziwa makes a wish.


End file.
